The Codex

40

It rained for a week solid, without letup. Every day they pushed forward, up and down canyons, along precarious cliffs, across roaring streams, all of it buried in the thickest jungle Tom thought possible. If they made four miles it was a good day. After seven days of this Tom awoke one morning to find the rain had finally ceased. Don Alfonso was already up, tending a large fire. His face was grave. While they ate breakfast, he announced:

“I had a dream last night.”

The serious tone in his voice gave Tom pause. “What kind of dream?”

“I dreamed that I died. My soul went up into the sky and began searching for St. Peter. I found him standing in front of the gates of heaven. He hailed me as I came up. ‘Don Alfonso, is that you, you old rascal?’ he asked. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘It is I, Don Alfonso Boswas, who died in the jungle far from home at the age of one hundred and twenty-one, and I want to come inside and see my Rosita.’ ‘What were you doing way out there in the jungle, Don Alfonso?’ he asked. ‘I was with some crazy yanquis going to the Sierra Azul,’ I said. ‘And did you get there?’ he asked. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Well then, Don Alfonso, you scoundrel, you’ll have to go back.’ ”

He stopped, then added, “And so I came back.”

Tom wasn’t sure how to react. For a moment he thought the dream might be one of Don Alfonso’s jokes, until he saw the serious look on the old man’s face. He exchanged a glance with Sally.

“So what does this dream mean?” Sally asked.

Don Alfonso placed a piece of matta root inside his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, then leaned over to spit out the pulp. “It means I have only a few more days with you.”

“A few more days? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Don Alfonso finished his stew and rose, saying, “Let us talk no more about this and go to the Sierra Azul.”

That day was worse than before, for when the rains ceased the insects appeared. The travelers struggled up and down a succession of steep ridges on trails deep in muck, falling and sliding constantly, hounded by swarms. Toward afternoon they descended into another ravine echoing with the sound of roaring water. As they descended the roar became louder, and Tom realized a major river lay at the bottom. As the foliage broke at the banks of the river, Don Alfonso, who was in front, halted and retreated in confusion, motioning them to stay back in the trees.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asked.

“There is a dead man across the river, under a tree.”

“An Indian?”

“No, it is a person wearing North American clothing.”

“Could it be an ambush?”

“No, Tomás, if it was an ambush we would already be dead.”

Tom followed Don Alfonso to the riverbank. On the other side of the river, perhaps fifty yards up from the crossing point, there was a small natural clearing with a large tree in the middle. Tom could just see a bit of color behind the tree. He borrowed Vernon’s binoculars to examine it more closely. A bare foot, horribly swollen, was visible, with part of a ragged pantleg in view. The rest of him was hidden behind the trunk. As Tom looked he saw a bluish puff of smoke drift from behind the tree, then another.

“Unless a dead man can smoke, that man’s alive,” said Tom.

“Mother of God, you are right.”

They felled a tree across the river. The sound of the axe echoed through the forest, but whoever was behind the tree did not move.

After the tree had come crashing down, forming a wobbly bridge, Don Alfonso stared suspiciously across the river. “It may be a demon.”

They crossed on the rickety tree using the pole. On the far side of the river they could no longer see the man.

“We must go on and pretend we have not seen him,” whispered Don Alfonso. “I am sure now it is a demon.”

“That’s absurd,” said Tom. “I’m going to check it out.”

“Please do not go, Tomás. He will steal your soul and take it to the bottom of the river.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Vernon.

“Curandera, you stay here. I do not want the demon to take all of you.”

Tom and Vernon picked their way along the polished boulders on the riverbank, leaving Don Alfonso muttering unhappily to himself. They soon arrived at the clearing and stepped around the tree.

There, they beheld a wreck of a human being. He sat with his back against the tree, smoking a briar pipe, looking at them steadily. He did not seem to be an Indian, although his skin was almost black. His clothing was in tatters, and his face was scratched raw and bleeding from insect bites. His bare feet were cut and swollen. He was so thin, the bones of his body stuck out grotesquely, like a starving refugee’s. His hair was stringy, and he had a short beard full of sticks and leaves.

He made no reaction to their arrival. He merely stared up at them out of hollow eyes. He looked more dead than alive. And then he gave a start, like a little shiver. The pipe came out of his mouth, and he spoke, his voice little more than a harsh whisper.

“How are you, brothers of mine?”